


If Music Be the Food of Love

by StellarCorpses



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StellarCorpses/pseuds/StellarCorpses
Summary: Angels can sense love. It's a sixth sense, unlike any of the five humans are familiar with. Still, if Aziraphale had to compare it with a human sense, it would be less like feeling love and more like hearing it. It can be rather difficult to find the source of the love he senses, like finding a music box in a maze, so he assumes the love he hears at full volume whenever he's around Crowley is his own. Still, with the Armageddon't successfully averted, he supposes it's time to face the music.





	If Music Be the Food of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so my apologies in advance. Fluffy oneshot that expands on why Aziraphale coudn't find the source of the love he sensed on that fateful drive through Tadfield. Enjoy!

Aziraphale's love is a funny thing. Human love is so simple, so categorical. Angelic love is superficial and, legend has it, all-encompassing. Aziraphale's love is a symphony, with true all-encompassing love weeping with the cellos and platonic love piping up with the piccolos. His love of the world is the entire brass section, and the bass drum keeps a steady heartbeat. If its tempo picks up some when a certain demon is around, and its two-syllable rhythm sounds somewhat like a name to a careful listener, well, that's no one's business but Aziraphale's.  
Crowley's love is a funny thing. He lost his cold, angelic love in the Saunter, but his all-encompassing compassion was never angelic, and so that he retained. Crowley only loves one being in the universe, though he cares deeply for those need cared for. His heartbeat goes too fast, but his breathing is measured, his corporation sprawled, but still. He's a demon who knows what he wants and he's not afraid to not get it. Friendship may not be all he could ever want but it's considerably more than he could ever reasonably expect.  
Sometimes the symphony of Aziraphale's complicated love features a solo. In Crowley's company, the piccolos shone (though the bass drum had been stepping on their solo for some time). Most times, his love is cacophonous. So it's no wonder, really, that it took nearly six thousand years for romantic love to make itself heard above the racket.

We begin our story outside the ruins of a church with the white knight (formerly), and his knight in shining armour (always). It was 1941, and Aziraphale had very nearly discorporated. Naturally, he was distraught. Unnaturally, he was distraught about his books.  
"Oh, the books!" He cried, panic and hopelessness washing over him in equal parts. As he rambled on, close to tears, his demon did his level best to hide a smug smile. It was the sort of smile you wear waiting for a loved one to open a gift you know they'll love.  
"Little demonic miracle of my own." he said, his fingers brushing Aziraphale's as he handed him the books. "Lift home?"  
It's super effective!  
Aziraphale looked at the books, or, more specifically, at his hand holding the books, as he tried to discover the source of the fireworks blooming behind his eyes and the delightful, constricted feeling in his chest as his heart hammered against his ribs. He looked back at Crowley, and-  
Oh.  
Ohhhhhhh.  
He was smitten.  
Violins swelled as he stood frozen, staring at his hereditary enemy and the love of his life.

Lots of stuff happened, and the apocalypse didn't. Our story resumes in 2019 in an un-burned-down bookshop in Soho.

"'S not like feeling, you know, people think it is, bu' 's'not. It's it's own whole- whole- it's own whole sense, 's'what it is!" Aziraphale managed triumphantly.  
"If 's'not like feeling, wha's'it like, then?" Crowley drawled. He had a lazy way of speaking at the best of times (Aziraphale had been known to find himself listening more to the lilt in his voice than to his words more times than he'd care to admit) but drunk, Crowley had a tendency to let his sentences slide into incomprehensible frankenwords.  
"'S'not like anything! Tha's wha' 'm saying!" Aziraphale said animatedly. Crowley privately thought it was very cute the way his angel became so impassioned at the strangest things. "Well. S'a little like. Like. S'a little like hearing. Or, like lis- like listening to music. 'S right annoying! 'S diff- it's diffic- hic!- 's hard to figure out the- the- the where it's coming from," Aziraphale finished.  
"Th' source?" Crowley supplied.  
"Tha's it!" Aziraphale exclaimed. Crowley smiled soppily at him. "The source of it. Can't find it. S'like finding a music box in a maze."  
"So," said Crowley, on the edge of realization, "so you can sense love. But you dunno where it's coming from,"  
"Uh-huh," Aziraphale confirmed.  
"You don't know. Who it's coming from,"  
"Nope!"  
Unnoticed by Aziraphale, Crowley sobered up. "You don't know," he repeated absently. Aziraphale gave him a curious look. This, Crowley thought, this changed everything. He'd assumed the angel knew. He'd been fine with the friendship Aziraphale offered, happy, even, but knowing that his angel didn't know how he felt, that he wasn't rejecting him, he was overwhelmed with the need to know. He needed to know if his angel reciprocated the love he'd kept bottled up for as long as he could remember. "Angel?" he croaked, the endearment heavy with adoration and uncertainty, "Do you- do you sense anything right now?"  
It was Aziraphale's turn to sober up. He wasn't sure what Crowley was getting at, but he was apprehensive. Had he been staring too obviously? Had expressed his love accidentally when he was drunk on wine and Crowley's company? Was his heartbeat truly as deafening as it sounded, echoing in his skull? Aziraphale had a choice. He could deny - deny, deny, deny as he had done since the Beginning - or he could take the plunge.  
"Yes," he said quietly, "but that's the way the world always is around you, my dear," Crowley gulped, and Aziraphale continued, "because I'm in love with you."  
Crowley gaped at him. Aziraphale's gaze darted around the room, anywhere but Crowley's wide, golden eyes. Finally, perhaps picking up on Aziraphale's understandable discomfort, he collected himself. "Angel," he said again, "I love you, too. Always have. Always-" his voice broke, but he forged ahead, "always will. You're sensing my love, angel,"  
They were both right, and they were both wrong. The love Aziraphale sensed was a duet. The angel's and the demon's love sang in tandem, and unbeknownst to the couple, off in Berkeley Square, a nightingale joined in.


End file.
